


Lost Souls

by JackAnthonySylverwind



Category: American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: M/M, Multi, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 19:58:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackAnthonySylverwind/pseuds/JackAnthonySylverwind
Summary: Ben\Tate\Michael taking place during Return to Murder House.





	Lost Souls

Seeing Michael changes everything.

Ben recognizes the blonde hair. And the deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression that fills the boy’s face every time one of the house ghosts reveals itself to him, in their various attempts to frighten him away, answers any question Ben might have had.

He’s Tate’s son alright; the product of the house’s darkest acts against one of its inhabitants. Without a doubt, the evil of the house had lured him there, had called Michael to the monstrous place that had seen his birth.

Ben remembers that night even in death; remembers losing Vivien, losing Michael to the ghosts that staged his death, as well as everything that followed.

He doesn’t tell Michael any of it.

Instead, he waits. He watches Michael come, watches him explore the house over many visits. Eventually, all the ghosts become aware of him, of the curious boy that wanders their dwelling place. They don’t interact with him, all aware of who he is, but even the darkest and most foul of the spirits in the house don’t mind his comings and goings.

Ben approaches him late one afternoon. The sun is setting, and Michael is sitting in the room that used to be his office, lounging in one of those too expensive sofas that the Harmons had inherited from the previous tenants.

The boy isn’t surprised to see Ben materialize out of thin air.

“You’re the doctor,” He guesses, and Ben wonders how much research the kid has done. How much he knows about the house. About who he is. Big blue eyes fix on him, and for a moment, Ben feels exposed. “The one who killed himself.”

Ben holds back the anger that flashes through him in that moment, the moment of his death replaying in his mind. The impulse to lash out rises, but he reigns it in. He doesn’t want to make a bad impression.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“For a while, the cops thought you were my father,” The blue eyes glaze over, and instantly, Ben knows were this is going. He’s reminded of all the times he treated Michael’s father here, all the times he thought that Tate was treatable.

Ben nods. “They did.”

“But you’re not.”

“I’m not.” Ben agrees. He sits on the other sofa, takes the same sitting position he had many times before while treating his patients. “What do you want?”

Michael frowns at the question. He observes Ben for a while, and the psychiatrist isn’t surprised in the slightest. He wasn’t expecting any different. Michael’s the son of a killer, after all.

“I want to know who I am.” Michael states. Ben almost laughs out loud.

 _As if it were that easy,_ the older man thinks to himself. But he doesn’t look away from Michael. Instead, he meets his gaze, brooding and intense as it is.

“Tragedy has stricken,” Ben guesses, and he guesses correctly, he must have, because Michael comes undone. The mask he’d been wearing up to that point, the remotes he’s been trying to exude, vanishes, tears noticeable in his eyes from where Ben is sitting. “Hasn’t it?”

Michael tells him about his grandmother, about her suicide after she discovered he’d _changed_ overnight. Ben doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t want to blow his cover. But wherever Constance is, Ben wishes her well, and hopes in silence that she’s found some sort of peace. The woman had been a bitch, granted, but she’d probably been a victim of the house as well.

After Michael collects himself, Ben asks him to leave.

“But-” Michael begins, but before he can burst into tears again, Ben moves from where he’s sitting to Michael’s side, grabbing his hand and squeezing it to soothe the boy’s nerves.

“Get some sleep. Then come back tomorrow.”

Michael’s eyes are full of confusion and despair. But he nods and slips into the night without asking any questions.

* * *

 

After Ben’s passing, Tate had sought him out to make amends. Ben had been too distraught to look at the person who’d brought so much despair into his life in the face, let alone let him help adjust to the afterlife.

But he’d always know where to find Tate. The tortured soul with the beautiful face had always put out a specific type of scent, one of sweetness and decay. Ben follows that very scent after Michael leaves, prepares for what he must do.

Unsurprisingly, he finds Tate in the attic.

“I saw you with him.” Tate says, anger in his voice. He approaches Ben carefully, his eyes full of confusion.

They meet in the middle of the room. Tate keeps his arms crossed over his chest.

Ben is unfaced. In many ways, Tate is still a teenager. Still bound to messy emotions that he will never overcome. Ben braces himself.

“Constance is dead,” Tate’s face fills with rage, but before he can explode, Ben puts a hand on his shoulder. “Michael didn’t hurt her. It… it looks like she couldn’t go through it again.”

Ben fills Tate in on everything that Michael told him earlier. He watches his former patient go from murderous rage to a strange sense of understanding and pity.

“He's just like me,” Tate says sadly, eyes downcast. “Lost.”

Ben squeezes Tate’s shoulder. “Let me help you.”

He fills Tate in on his plan, watches the ghost’s expression shift once more.

Ben hopes it’s enough.

* * *

 

When Michael comes back the next morning, he doesn’t bother pretending he’s exploring anymore. He goes straight for Ben’s office and locks the door behind him.

Ben receives him with a smile, watches Michael sit down across from him yet again.

“You brought your stuff.” Ben points out, and Michael’s cheeks flare with color.

“I did. I hope that’s ok.” Michael replies worriedly. Quickly, Ben nods, and he moves from his seat to the sofa Michael’s occupying, in hopes that this will reassure the boy.

“It is, it’s more than ok,” Ben says rapidly. “I’m glad you’re here.” He takes one of Michael’s hands, and the boy’s blue eyes are instantly flooded by warmth. “In fact, there’s someone else who’s glad you’re here too."

Michael eyes Ben suspiciously, but when Tate emerges from the shadows, he freezes.

“He’s…” Michael begins.

Ben nods. “Yeah. He is.”

Michael stares at the Tate from where he’s sitting, and Tate returns the stare. Ben is surprised to see that there’s no anger or hatred in Tate’s eyes.

“You’re my son.” Tate states, his voice full of awe. He moves towards them, towards the two men whose life he’s ruined on multiple levels. But there’s no hate in them either. Not even in the room the three lost souls are occupying.

Tate looks beautiful standing in front of them, and it dawns on Ben that he’s in the presence of two fallen angels.

He watches Tate put a hand on his son’s face; watches said son lead into the touch eagerly. Twin blue eyes drink each other in.

“What a beautiful thing I’ve made,” Tate says, and surely enough, there are tears streaming down his face. He sinks to his knees in front of his son, places his head on Michael’s lap.

Michael takes his father’s face in his hands gingerly, brings it up to his level.

Yet again their eyes meet, icy blue waves colliding, reflecting one another. Ben gasps when they begin to kiss, and he watches with amazement as their mouths battle for dominance. Tate is the winner, and this comes as no surprise to Ben. Darkness always prevails, Ben muses darkly.

When they finally pull away, both spirit and the product of his seed desperate for air, they fix their gaze upon Ben.

No words are spoken. Ben lets them come upon him, lets them cover him with kisses, lets them remove his and their clothing until the three  men are naked in what used to be Ben's office

Ben touches himself through the first hour. He watches Tate suck Michael off, then teaches Michael how to do it.

Tate looks down on them with absolute tenderness in his eyes while their mouths dance around his cock. Michael is a natural, and that should scare Ben, but at this point, fear is futile. He could be horrified at their actions, but truth was they were all monsters.

Tate comes on Michael’s face, and he and Ben lick the mess off their beautiful companion.

They take turns fucking Michael afterwards.

He’s loud and eager, rocking back on Ben’s fingers when he’s scissoring him open. He rides the man that could’ve been his father, the man whose son he devoured. He moans loudly and proudly when Ben comes inside of him.

Then he moans even loader when Tate eats him out, when his father licks and sucks the cum out of his swollen asshole. Tate is tender with him, running his tongue in and out of Michael with the utmost dedication.

Ben watches from the other sofa, strokes himself repeatedly as he watches Tate fucks Michael with his tongue, and then with his prick.

“How does it feel?” Tate asks Michael softly while he’s buried deep inside of him, and Ben wonders if he’s eavesdropping, if he should be hearing this. If he shouldn’t, then it’s too late, because he also hears Michael’s reply, a breathy, “good, daddy” that Ben is sure will haunt him forever.

Near the end, they fuck him together.

Tate on top, looking into his son’s eyes while the man whose daughter he killed fucks him as well. And Michael loves it, lives for it, relishes in the feel of their two cocks inside of him, throbbing, pushing him over the edge.

When he comes, he comes undone, but he knows neither one of the two men inside him will leave.

And for the first time in his life, Michael Langdon is not alone.


End file.
